Half of my brain (is killing me)
by trippledlocked
Summary: An beautiful 00Q ship. Specially made for those that would love Sick!Q fanfictions. :) (Post Spectre. Two Months After Madeleine Swann broke up with Bond. *The Breakup is predicted.*)


**Half of my brain (is killing me)**

Q opens his eyes and he's confused.

He has been standing at his work station as always, checking on 004 in Bolivia, and now all he can feel is the pain behind his skull and all he can see is Bond's ice blue eyes far too close.

He doesn't even notice that Bond is speaking to him.

"Can you hear me, Q? Can you stand?"

Bond snaps his fingers at Q after noticing that he have just blanked out.

Q raises a hand to let Bond know he understood, and shakes his head to answer the second question. Unexpected pain rises from the back of his eyes and he has to screw them shut. Meanwhile, Bond is asking quietly for some water.

"What's wrong, Q?" he whispers.

 _'I don't know, Bond.'_ Q wanted to say. He fists the lapels of the agent's tuxedo and hides his face in the crook of his shoulder.

 _'I don't know.'_

Q comes out of the bathroom with a white box in which sits the container for the blood exam, filled with his urine. He holds it with just two fingers, arm extended as far as it'll go, and with an expression between a mild irritation and pure nauseousness.

Bond, who was going to check on him if he took any longer, almost choked on the slice of toast he was eating.

Q laughs and pats his back. When Bond is sure he's not dying, he laughs too.

The younger man puts the box in a small white paper bag and wanders into the kitchen to wash his hands once again. Bond comes up behind him and kisses the top of his head.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come along?" he asks. "It's just a blood exam," Q replies. "I'll be back home before you even realise I'm out the door." A corner of Bond's lips goes up in something too quick to be called a smile. He hands Q another paper bag, bigger and brown. "Eat this once you're done," he says.

Q nods, puts on his oversized coat - the bag goes into one of the pockets - and gives Bond a light peck on the lips. "I will," he says before he picks up the urine sample and walks out the door.

 _Negative._

 _Negative._

Blood and urine tests come back clean. Apparently, Q is sound as a bell.

Except from the fact that Bond is holding him while he cries as pain stabs his brain. He has stopped whispering sweet, soothing sounds a while ago. Now, he's simply waiting until the headache fades. It always does. But in the beginning it passed in less than a quarter and these days it lasts around half an hour already.

"Bond, Bond, Bond ..." Q calls his name over and over, his jaw tight and his voice tired.

"Sssh…" Bond whispers, and he doesn't know who's holding onto whom anymore.

There's a mission in China with 009 held captive so Q skips the MRI scan. There's someone trying to get through the new firewalls Q had set up after Silva so he skips the new appointment too. Then there's 006 in Kazakhstan and Alec calls Bond in the middle of the night to apologise. Bond shakes his head and tells him that it's ok, I'm sure it's nothing terrible. Just horrible headaches.

Q has from 6 to 12 episode every week now and Bond isn't always there. They have a futon in Q's office as well as painkillers stacked in his drawer. They never work much.

In the end they always call Bond - mostly because Q keeps asking for him and won't calm down otherwise - and no matter if it's over the phone or in person he tries his best to help Q.

Even if he doesn't exactly know what to do.

When he finally makes it to the MRI after two weeks of postponing it, the scan looks perfectly normal and Q insists on a lumbar puncture more because the doctor had mentioned meningitis once, than because he thinks it's really necessary.

There's only one explanation now. Cluster headache. A very bitchy one apparently.

Q sighs when he gives Bond the news. He squeezes his hands in a small gesture of comfort, not daring to risk more in the heart of MI6.

Bond is on a short mission in Chile, not even a month after the first blood exam when he's suddenly left alone in the middle of nowhere, and all he can hear in the earpiece is Q retching and people shouting and he doesn't realise he's started screaming for someone to explain what the hell is going on until the bad guys find him and shot him.

He comes out with only a gash on his left arm, and by the time he's taken down the thugs, R had already taken Q's place.

"What happened?!" Bond hisses.

"Q threw up his lunch," R answers, voice calm. Bond swears loudly in return.

Being unable to stomach food is not a normal symptom of cluster headaches so once he's back from Chile, he asks for a month of sick leave.

M gives him two.

Bond keeps Q's hair out of the way as he throws up into the toilet where they've relocated halfway through dinner. He waits nervously until the retching subsides before taking a damp cloth and cleaning his mouth. Q's like dead weight in his arms, breathing slowly and just letting Bond do as he pleases. The agent knows Q is grateful for all the help he can get, so he meticulously scrubs his face. When he feels Q's head look against his shoulder once he's done, Bond can't help holding on a little tighter.

He half-carries Q back to their bedroom and puts him into bed. Carefully he tugs him in and lightly brushes his hands over his cheeks. Once he's sure Q's sleeping, he texts R. And Tanner, just to be sure.

Q won't be coming to work tomorrow. Or the day after. -007

Q changes his diet - not that he had some kind of eating habits before.

Where formerly he lived on take-away he's now skipping cheese and peanuts and red wine. There's also no more cured or smoked meat or fish on his plate. It isn't difficult to be more careful, the only thing Q mourns is to give up chocolate.

"No more Nutella," Q murmured, as they went through the list of foods high in tyramines – the amino acids Q had to avoid – from one of the many doctors they had consulted. Well, the only one who survived Bond's hard stares.

Bond follows Q's diet too without much trouble. Every once and again he indulges in a glass of red wine. But when Q insists he should eat whatever, however and whenever he likes, Bond insists he will once Q can eat a full meal without rushing to the bathroom halfway through it.

"Q..."

Bond is breathless as Q sobs into his chest, dinner once again forgotten on the table. Q's plate lays shattered on the floor, right next to a puddle of vomit. No matter how much Q wants to eat, his body throws it up right away.

"Q, what do we do" he asks, cradling the shaking frame in his arms, stroking his lover's back in soothing circles. Q just sobs harder. "I don't know," he mutters, broken. "I have no idea."

They re-do the blood tests. They're clear.

They re-do the MRI scan, and that's fine too.

They spend a whole week in and out hospitals and private clinics performing every test the doctors can think of.

"It's just cluster headache," Q tells Bond firmly.

They're in bed, facing each other, entangled in a mess of limbs. It's the only way they can both sleep quietly. Bond's too nervous to sleep if he's not holding onto Q, making sure he's there and fine. And Q just keeps trashing and turning without Bond's steadying presence right on top of him.

"Just a bad headache" he repeats. He's said it a few times tonight and by now he sounds more like he's reminding himself than reassuring Bond. The agent can feel Q hug him a little tight but he can also feel the bony fingers grabbing his night shirt. If he brushes his hands up and down Q's spine he can count the knots and so he can do with the ribs.

His lover his always been slim, but this is more than slim and Bond tightens his embrace in return.

Three weeks after the last MRI scan the only thing Q can eat without rushing to the bathroom right away is toast. He's weak and tired. He hasn't gone to work in weeks now and R has taken up the habit of texting him in regular intervals. Even if it's just a 'No relevant updates, sir.'

Bond doesn't text Eve anymore, not after she accused him of martyrising himself.

He texts Tanner instead. Mostly to give an update on Q's condition, but also because he would go crazy if he didn't have someone to share his worries with.

 _He couldn't lift his cup this morning and almost fainted halfway back to the bedroom._

 _He ate half an apple for lunch._

 _And for dinner._

 _He tried to drink orange juice. Almost spilled the whole bottle over when he ran off to the toilet._

 _He refused to leave the toilet side for the rest of the day._

 _He's put some jam on the toast and ate it just fine._

 _He couldn't eat a third slice though._

 _He's finally asleep. I can't feel my right arm anymore._

 _Texting with my left hand is hard._

 _It's ok, though._

 _He's woken up screaming and the headache kicked in immediately._

 _He cried into the last clean shirt I had._

 _He..._

 _He..._

 _He..._

 _He..._

 _He..._

 _He..._

Sometimes Tanner text back. It's usually some variation of 'I'm so sorry'.

"You don't have to stay!" Q yells at Bond. He's just finished retching for the second time of the day and it's not even eleven a.m. yet. Bond feels his heart skip a beat, scared of what will come next.

Q leaps at him, fists tight and tears running down his cheeks. He beats Bond's chest with as much strength as he can gather. It's not much and Bond takes it all. It's hurting him more to see Q like this anyway.

"I vowed," he murmurs, holding Q close against his will. He can feel the other's nails dig into the skin of his arms, probably scratching him. Q seems to be intent on lashing out, but Bond just hold on tightly. "In sickness and health, remember?" he murmurs against his partner's hair and his voice cracks at the last word. Q goes limp in his arms, still sobbing, clutching at Bond now rather than trying to hurt him. They're running on a thin wire, and none of them know how long it will hold.

By now they have tried different medications, starting with lidocaine and progressively going stronger. But Q is wary of the effects of long-term use, so they drop them as soon as it's obvious they aren't working.

Q flat out refuses to take any kind of hallucinogens, even though they work on almost anyone affected by cluster headache. "I have no intention of losing control of my mind and body," he told Bond he tried to argue the point. "The headaches do a terrific work of it already."

So in the end they settle for oxygen therapy. Q keeps an oxygen tank where his nightstand used to be, and as soon as he felt a new episode begin, he puts on the mask and lies down. It takes only 15 – 20 minutes until he can get back to do whatever he was doing before. Bond is as relieved as Q that they've finally found a therapy that worked.

Bond drags his feet on the way from the bathroom to the kitchen, passing by the living room slowly. Q is sitting on the couch, staring at the balcony window. He just came out of an attack the oxygen therapy hadn't be able to abort. His eyes are red and puffy, with dark bags under them. Bond gently passes his hand through Q's hair as he passes him by.

Q doesn't speak much after those few attacks he can't abort. Bond doesn't mind the silence since Q can always nod or shake his head to communicate. He can also point at things he wants and, even though it might not be ideal, it works fine. Unfortunately if Q is silent and there's something going on in his head, there's no way Bond for know, or help.

"I can understand if something displeases you," he had said once, over a frugal dinner "But I can't read your mind." Q had just looked at him, blinked a couple of times and nodded.

Bond has lost some weight. He didn't notice before, but he notices now. He keeps pulling up a pair of jeans that used to fit just fine without a belt. He doesn't know what's more annoying, having to use a belt now or understanding it meant he didn't take much care of himself.

He sighs, looking at Q on the bed. The other is breathing into the oxygen mask, hands resting calmly over his solar plexus.

Q will get back to work in a couple of days, starting with just a normal shift from 9 to 5. Bond will come with him of course. During these months, they have always been in the same room, with very few exceptions. Bond has never left Q's side, and he won't start now. Especially when Q will just keep pushing himself trying to catch up at work.

"Hey," the agent says, laying next to Q. The younger waves a hand to him, a small smile spreading on his lips behind the mask. "How do you feel about going back to work?" he asks, shifting closer to rest his head on Q's bony shoulder. The other gives his thumbs up. "I'm a bit nervous." Bond confesses. He usually doesn't voice his thoughts. Q understands him perfectly well without talking and most of the times he doesn't want strangers to know about his feelings. This time, though, he feels like he should tell Q, not only to voice his unease but also to explain himself.

"I don't want people to give you pitying looks. I don't want them to assume you'll need help for everything," he says, entwining the fingers of his left hand with Q's right ones. "Or that you could faint on them or have an episode at any given moment."

Q just smiled at Bond, and fell asleep.

The next day, Bond found himself sleeping next to nothing. "Q?" Bond queried, sitting up on the bed. He walked out of the bedroom and saw Q laying on the floor, with a knife stabbing into his chest. Lying next to him was a note.

'Dear Bond, I'm sorry for letting you down. All these years, when we worked together, I truly enjoyed it. When I had this cluster headache, I realised that I could not handle it anymore. Therefore, I decided to commit suicide. Please do not worry, I'll rest in peace.'

Bond broke down into tears, slapping himself for sleeping soundly and not noticing that Q has left him.


End file.
